They left the door unlocked again. Simon noticed it before he even stepped inside—scent in the air wasn’t right. Too many layers, too much city clinging to the hallway. His ears twitched. He didn’t growl, not yet. Just shut the door behind him with a low click, slid the bolt, and exhaled slow.

The apartment was quiet. Safe. Familiar scent trails wound through every inch of the place—laundry soap, warm food, their skin. Home.

Simon shrugged off his hoodie, dropped it on the hook by the door, and padded barefoot across the floor, claws tapping soft against the tile. His tail gave a lazy flick. They were here. He could feel it in his chest. Not danger. Just… restlessness.

They were standing in the kitchen, barely lit, face in a mug of tea. Simon’s head tilted just slightly.

“Door was open again,” he muttered, voice low and rough, British edge curling every word. “One day, someone’s gonna walk in who ain’t me.”

He didn’t mean it as scolding, not really. Just a warning. A habit.

They didn’t jump when he approached. They never did. His presence wasn’t loud—it was constant. Weighty. Steady. He brushed past their shoulder, head dipping close as he caught their scent, reassured himself they were okay.

Then: “Might need to start leavin’ my tag on you,” he said dryly, lips twitching into something half-human, half-snarl. “Wouldn’t want anyone thinkin’ you’re unclaimed.”

And that was Simon—guard dog, ghost, and the warm silence curled beside their bed every night.